The Captain is Nothing

By Alone Dreaming

Rating: PG-13 or T (for suffering)

Disclaimer: If I owned it, it wouldn't be under fan fiction.

Warnings: Contains spoilers for The City on the Edge of Forever, The Immunity Syndrome, Journey to Babel, contains a bit of blood, a bit of suffering, a bit of nuttiness and a distinctively fluffy ending.

Written For: KCS in a fic exchange. :)

Author's Note: Written for KCS at Live Journal for trek_hc. in the attempts to fill the following prompts:

anything with the City on the Edge of Forever, because that's my favorite episode

scene from after the end of Immunity Syndrome; both Kirk and McCoy looked ready to collapse on the spot after the space amoeba was destroyed

Five times Jim couldn't breathe, and one time he held his breath

He decides that it isn't a room in the sense of four walls and a ceiling because it lacks all of those; however, it becomes his best comparison as the gas seeps into the container with him causing him to take one tremendous gulp of air, filling his lungs, his cheeks, his throat, and hold it. The gas swirls about, never progressing beyond the invisible barrier that holds him in. It awaits his slip up, pressing upwards to the non-existent ceiling, tickling his arms, caressing his face. It tells him it won't hurt him—too badly—and whatever happens, no one will blame him. Not even the logical, steady Mister Spock will raise his ever-expressive brow and coolly call human weakness the culprit in this.

He closes his eyes and ignores it. He knows that just beyond his vision, somewhere safe from the gas, awaits a group of curious individuals who know that the average human cannot exceed sixty seconds without air and that extraordinary ones only manage a few minutes before desperation or sudden unconsciousness enforces a gasp. They hover with their recording orbs ready to see what will escape his lips after the gas enters and starts sifting through his mind. Something of merit will no doubt escape him—he is not self-absorbed enough to believe that he will withstand this nor is he delusional enough to believe that whatever the gas coaxes from him will not be of use—and they will gleefully add it to their records so they can later dissect, observe and apply it to their plans.

He keeps movement to a minimum, relaxes as much as his body will allow, in an attempt to conserve as much air as possible. Even so, as he borders on a minute and a half of no oxygen and his mind tilts towards a hazy uncertainty, he knows he will soon have to take in some of the drug that presses against his nostrils in wait. And he cannot allow that to happen to his unconscious mind, where he can exert no control over what the gas finds in his brain; instead, he decided even as they tossed him into this chamber, he will take in a breath and hold it and do his best to direct the gas into unessential parts of his mind.

And pray hard and long that sooner—rather than later—Spock manages to discover the key to entering this alternate reality and disarms these foes. If they keep him for too long, he has the sinking suspicion that everything could happen the other way around. He prides himself for knowing his crew, their strengths and weaknesses. In his hands, those things make his Starship the best in the fleet; in the hands of an enemy, those things could tear his people apart. It could possibly even destroy Starfleet if the gas retrieves more confidential information.

Two and a half minutes and he steadies himself for the first breath of the gas. Employment of Spock's breathing techniques first, he tries to stabilize his mind and enter a light state of meditation. Without panic controlling him, he stands some chance of controlling what the gas can remove from his mind, what images he will receive, what places he will go to when it washes over his synapses and tosses him into memory. He latches on to the ever steady sound of the Vulcan's voice, thinks about shared laughs with McCoy, the friendly faces of his bridge crew and he breathes in deep.

It tastes like almonds, bitter, crisped almonds, mixed with the slightest hints of cherries. But he never notices.

They survived the amoeba together, working as a crew. After the long, hard mission, all any of them had wanted—most especially him—was to dock and relax on some planet, somewhere. In all truth, he'd intended on renting a tiny room in a hotel and sleeping until he no longer felt the oppressive weariness hanging on his limbs and tearing at his chest. But life in Starfleet did not always work how he wanted, how his crew wanted; it worked as the galaxy needed and more often than not, that required sacrifices on their parts. He'd decided long before that what he did was important, that watching his actions create a better future, made any suffering on his part worthwhile.

Days like this one, however, caused him to second-guess himself, even as he leaned back in his chair, exhausted and spent, the last of the stimulants dripping from his system. Today, not only had he dragged his weary crew on another mission when they'd not been fully prepared but he'd also come close to losing one of his closest friends and most trusted advisors. It was not his fault—not really, anyway, beyond making the choice of which person to send—and not the fault of Starfleet but it still sat on his shoulders, an unnecessary burden when everything had turned out terrifically well.

"McCoy to Bridge," Bones called over the intercom.

"Bridge, here," he replied, his head aching and stomach churning. "How are your patients?"

"Recovering well. Energy snapped right back into place like it did with the ship though a handful of them are now suffering from stimulant withdrawals. I've had a few people admitted with extreme cases of exhaustion but nothing serious. Looks like we've made it through without losing a one."

Positive; even as he slouched further in his chair, he thought of this as positive. "Good to hear, Doctor McCoy. Anything else?"

"Beyond the suggestion that you rest, Jim?" McCoy sounded as though it wasn't as much as a suggestion as Kirk would like to think. "No. Next shift should be up soon. You and the rest of the bridge crew need to take a lie down."

"Noted, Bridge out," and he intended on sending them, the perfect bridge crew, to their bunks where they could gain whatever rest they needed. He, on the other hand, had duties to attend to outside of the bridge, logs to fill out, reports to read and file, crewmen to check up on. Some of it he'd intended on finishing after the original mission, after they'd docked and most of the crew went ashore. His work had doubled since then and if he wanted any time in that small room, with as much sleep as he pleased, he would have to achieve it.

Upon the arrival of the replacements, he stood up and smiled (though he felt that the smile may have faltered for Uhura looked at him strangely and Chekov frowned at him) at every single one of them as they filed out. He followed at a slower pace, giving a few offhand directives as he slipped into the hallway. Immediately, his balance faltered, his stomach clenched and he slumped against the wall. The floor tilted under his feet while his head spun and for a brief moment, he thought he might faint there and then, making a real fool out of himself. Instead, everything stabilized and he raised a badly shaking hand to his face.

It hit him strong, fast, catching him unaware. Suddenly, he sat in his room with two lists of his friends' strengths and weaknesses, debating which of them should go on the mission inside the deadly amoeba. He could not read the words on the paper for some reason, could not see why either of them should go or stay, could not remember why he needed to make this decision and not just send someone else. His head hurt from thinking about it too long, too hard, too much emotions mixing with his logic—oh, how Spock would lift those brows at him now—until he had no idea what decision he was making in the first place. The door to his quarters slid open and revealed the two standing before him.

"We've come to a decision," McCoy drawled, arms crossed in front of him.

He opened his mouth to ask what only to discover that he couldn't speak.

"Indeed," Spock confirmed. "Doctor McCoy and I have decided that, for maximum efficiency we shall both take the shuttle."

"With our combined knowledge, we should be able to come up with a solution twice as fast," McCoy added.

He tried to voice his disagreement as Captain, as their friend, as a desperate man trying to hold his world together. A small rasp of air escaped him but nothing else.

"We take your silence as acceptance, Captain," Spock intoned.

"It's been great knowing you, Jim," McCoy added. "Jim?"

"Captain?"

He blinked and discovered the panels of the hallway and Spock grasping his forearms. The few crewmembers who remained nearby scurried by in a hurried manner, throwing the occasional glances their way. Spock returned their gazes with an unflappable quiet that had them ducking their heads; but mostly, he focused on Kirk, kept his grip firm but not painful, his brows dipped low, his lips pressed in a thin line.

"Spock," he managed between small, gasping breaths. "You're alive." Irrational; he knew that already.

"I agree with this assessment," Spock said easily, trying to help him straighten up but his legs refused to hold him. His fingers shook violently against Spock's sleeves. "Should I escort you to the sick bay?"

"Sick bay?" he echoed, hollowly.

"Doctor McCoy would be interested in your current symptoms," Spock clarified, supporting him as he led them both to the turbo lift.

It boggled him for some reason, even though he saw Bones only an hour or two ago, spoke with him even more recently. "Bones is alive?"

"Yes, Jim," Spock confirmed, patiently, though his brow creased so deeply that, to Kirk, he appeared to have thick black lines dancing across his face. They stepped into the lift, blessedly free of other people; only then did Spock allow him to sink down towards the floor where things did not spin as badly and the world made a little more sense. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat, hear his pulse in his ears, felt it shaking his chest and arms.

"Spock to Sick Bay," in the background.

"This is McCoy, Spock."

"Doctor McCoy, I am bringing the Captain to the Sick Bay."

"Spock, I've got crew members bunking on the floor in here and Jim needs rest."

"He is in need of your assistance."

There was a pause, so short that he may have hallucinated it. "I'll meet you in his quarters."

The floor underneath him turned black, empty, starless, sucking the light from the area, leaching energy from the control panels, sapping the movement of the lift itself until he sat dark, alone, helpless—

Spock's hand enclosed on his one wrist while his other hand rested gently on Kirk's temple. "Jim?"

"Spock?" he croaked, shaking. "I'm sorry."

"Explain," Spock prompted, using his long fingers to grasp Kirk's other hand, carefully maneuvering both of them down.

For choosing you, he thought, for putting you in danger, for sacrificing you over Bones, for sending you to your death without even saying good-bye or good luck. "For—" he began aloud but the door of the lift slid open, loud as thunder to his ears, and he tried to pull away from Spock and the sound.

"Jim," Spock's voice in his ear. "We must continue to your cabin."

It made sense to a distant part of his mind and he took pride in holding some of his weight as he stumbled to his rooms. Spock, he noticed dimly, almost stumbled with him but he had to imagine that; Spock never stumbled, never faltered, always loyal, always straight, always logical; and, as a friend, he failed Spock, today, even if he had succeeded as a Captain. Spock opened the door and led him in, and he found himself astonished once more that his first mate stood before him instead of lying dead in the mortuary.

He was there, now, standing in front of a bio-bed, staring down at Spock's pale, still figure, and thinking how things should have gone differently. Next to that bed, crew members lay on beds, on the floor, covered in sheets with colored arms poking from underneath. It had all been for naught, everyone gone despite his efforts, crew, friends, ship, all dying around him from his inability to—

"Withdrawal, that's all, combined with exhaustion and mild malnutrition," McCoy interrupted his hallucination, frustration deep in his tone.

He couldn't get enough air, couldn't breathe, couldn't hope; his throat closed in on itself and his lungs seized. 'Silly,' he admonished himself. And then felt a prick on his arm and steadying hands around his shoulders. He blinked at Leonard McCoy who squatted before him, sweaty, pale, bags under his arms, looking exhausted. It earned him a furious nose wrinkle.

"I warned you about that last stimulant," he fussed, his tricorder out. It whirled and beeped, like a giant silver beetle. "You've just about fried your system."

He tilted his head back and sees Spock behind him, eyebrows raised, just as tired in appearance as McCoy. Then he looked at McCoy again, still speaking, still hissing obscenities under his breath as he read the tricorder output. The tightness in his throat grew though the air now heaved in to his chest and pushed out in a great gasp. He fumbled with McCoy's shirtsleeve, just catching it between two fingers as another breath flew from his lips. His cheeks grew wet.

"Jim," McCoy said, soft, his tricorder dropping from his hands. He returned the grip.

Spock merely squeezed his shoulders as his head dipped forward and he wept.

He doesn't cry in the room; or, at least, when he peels open heavy lids there and discovers his lips still pressed tightly together, his lungs straining for air, he does not feel the helpless heaving of his innards, the blurred edges of his emotions, nor the dampness on his cheeks. His body lies just as it was when he gave in to his need for air, still, hands crossed on stomach. The darkness hovers just as oppressive and the gas dances in his nostrils, waiting for his next moment of weakness so it can take him on another trip to—maybe—an even darker portion of his mind.

What the gas extracted this first time surprises him. He had expected details and charts, passwords and encryptions, secrets and cover-ups all to show up in his mind's eye like on a computer. At the very least, he had thought it would remove the keys to his crewmembers' souls so that these people could slowly take each and every trusted person apart. But what he had seen pertained solely to his own weaknesses, his own doubts, and his own anguish at the conflicts between captain and friend, and love and necessity. What little good it would do them; he already hovered in their hands, resilient and resistant to their efforts, but unable to escape them.

The strain of his lungs became too much and he braced for the next mouthful of medicine, breathing out the word, "Fools" even as he sucked in once more. This time the gas trickled into his fingers and toes, prickling, taunting, rubbing against the backs of his eyes before finally, leading his mind where it wanted.

With as often as the transporter malfunctioned, broke down, misplaced crewmembers and, generally, messed up, he found it interesting that it still surprised him when things went wrong. Even as Scotty said his first, hesitant, "Well, Capt'n, there's a problem" his mind had flown through six or seven other things (alien pollen, tribbles, food fights to name a few) before Scotty admitted that the transporter had stubbornly refused to work and he, Bones and Spock would have to entertain themselves until it was up and running again.

Luckily, they had no desperate need to return to the ship. Very often when he called some undetected threat hovered only feet from him, preparing to shred him to bits or steal what little sanity still hovered in his psyche. However, this world, Pangea as the natives called it, proved that benign planets still existed somewhere. The three of them had experienced the epitome of hospitality while staying with the Man'ee, one of three races that shared the world, and their return only marked the end of current investigation of the society. With all the gifts the Man'ee provided them with as they prepared for "ascension" (the Man'ee, while advanced in wisdom, had little interest in technology), he thought they could live well in the glade for years to come.

"Just call us when you're ready, Mr. Scott," he said, amicably.

Scotty's voice held a justifiable note of apprehension. "Are you sure, Cap'n?"

"I think Doctor McCoy, Commander Spock and I will be just fine," he assured. "Kirk out."

Two hours later found them comfortably seated around a fire with Man'ee "Fire Breath" which Kirk thought was similar to mead but with twice the strength and half of the sweet. Spock had set his cup aside with a look of extreme disinterest while Bones had finished nearly half the bottle on his own; it was enough to loosen his lips and bring out a number of interesting stories about his grandfather's farm in Georgia. Kirk had started into his third cupful, feeling warm and satisfied, laughter easily escaping him.

"And she says to me," Bones continued. " 'But, Leonard, it's green!'"

He chuckled along with his friend even as Spock's eyebrows dipped down in a rumpled, confused manner. "I fail to understand the purpose of this story, Doctor McCoy."

"It's funny," Kirk offered. "Come on, Spock, try a sip of the wine and a smile."

"It is inappropriate to imbibe on duty, Captain," Spock replied.

"Well," Kirk rolled his shoulders and leaned further against his pack. "As the mission's ended and we're not on the Enterprise, I think we can consider ourselves off duty until we manage to return to the ship. What do you think, Doctor McCoy?"

"Hear, hear," Bones raised his cup and finished the rest of it. "And don't try to reason with him, Jim. Vulcans don't have a sense of humor. It's illegal where they come from."

"On the contrary, Doctor McCoy," Spock corrected. "Vulcans have the ability to appreciate the ironies in specific situations which your kind often defines as comedy. One could even say that we have a better sense of it than humans do."

Kirk swirled the drink in his glass and watched McCoy's forehead crinkle. "Is that so?"

"However, being of higher intellectual capacity than most humans, we often require higher and more intelligent forms of humor than humans do," Spock added.

"Give me an example of a Vulcan joke, then," McCoy said, voice layered with challenge.

Spock paused for a second and picked up his glass of wine. "To explain it would be difficult as personal perception and culture dictate what can be considered ironic; however, your personality traits could be considered humorous should you come to Vulcan."

McCoy's face wrinkled in frustration. "How so?"

Kirk watched, his eyes flickering back and forth, a laugh building in the back of his throat. He didn't interrupt—he rarely did unless things became unnecessarily insulting—but kept his eyes and ears open. McCoy's face, already reddened from alcohol, flushed deeper with annoyance and he gesticulated wildly as he spoke. In utter contrast, Spock kept his hands folded across his lap, the only movement the slight rise and fall of his eyebrows. Life, he decided, as he set aside his cup and folded his arms across his chest, was good.

And then a spray of wine struck him across the face, dripping down onto his chest and soaking his pants. The cup it once resided in dropped gracelessly into his lap, spinning a little as it settled in the crook of his left knee. Across the fire, Bones blinked at him, his arm frozen in a half swing while Spock's lip turned ever so slightly in the corner. He looked at the two of them, down to his shirt and pants, then drew a tentative finger down the side of his face. The wine tried to dribble into his eyes and he ran his sleeve across his forehead to block the flow.

"Jim," Bones began, looking fairly sheepish.

"And that, Doctor, can decisively be defined as comedy," Spock finished, choosing that moment to take a sip of the mead.

He threw back his head and laughed until he couldn't breathe.

Wherever he is now, he feels a growing pressure in his chest, as though he cannot get enough air. It is incongruous with not breathing (a task which has become considerably more difficult as time has passed) but not in line with diminishing air supply either. He has experienced both sensations too many times to not recognize them, he decides, as he shifts ever so slightly to remove pressure from his shoulder. It's something else, something heavier, but lighter, painful, but in the sickly sweet fashion of good agony. His lips purse against an exhale and he shifts his eyes around his prison, thinking once again of escape. How does one escape a room with no doors or windows? He knew the answer to that question once upon a time.

The gas tickles his nostrils, irritates them, makes him want to sneeze, but he is not ready for the next memory it will withdraw and so holds tight to the air he already has. The room with no horizon spins about him and he wrinkles his nose against nausea. His mind wanders, sluggish, confused and useless, as it keeps replaying his friend's smiling faces. Enlightenment comes swiftly and he takes a breath without knowing it.

Part Two posted next week.